My prayer is twisted and torn, like the tissue into which it is poured. I’ve replayed each failing again and over again in my mind, searching for a reason for grace. I’ve calculated each loss, even predicted the ones to come, reaching for a reason to hope. I am like a woman searching for her lost coin, checking and double-checking every inch of floor and cupboard, picking up and setting down every piece of clutter. There is no rhyme or reason, no logic to what has been lost, no equation that can order my anguished wandering. There is only You to collapse upon, begging for rest and peace. Do You have time to search with me, to see what there is to be found — if at all? Will You, as we search, slip a coin of grace onto the shelf where I can find it, or perhaps clink a token of hope into the empty bowl on the table? Then my prayers will dry their tears and my voice will find a song that sheds light on the chaos and restores my soul.